


A soul resolved

by Petra



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Orgasm Delay, Painplay, Power Dynamics, Subspace, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time Sidney played with raw stripes from the night before on his ass, he scored two goals and two assists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A soul resolved

**Author's Note:**

> AU proposed by [](http://derryderrydown.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**derryderrydown**](http://derryderrydown.dreamwidth.org/), documented [in this post](http://petra.dreamwidth.org/700257.html). Thanks to Derry, [](http://imperfect-tense.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**imperfect_tense**](http://imperfect-tense.dreamwidth.org/), and [](http://lannamichaels.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lannamichaels**](http://lannamichaels.dreamwidth.org/) for alpha reading and immoral support, and to [](http://lightgetsin.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://lightgetsin.dreamwidth.org/)**lightgetsin** for beta reading.

Sometimes Sidney feels bad for the guys who have to get through nights after losses by themselves with nothing but alcohol and time to ease the pain. Not that he'd share his method even if he could, not that he trusts anyone else to get it, to understand that he has to push himself until he can prove he's better than the game made him look.

He can't stand the sound of his own voice on those nights. That's why Mario makes him beg for everything he gets: permission to touch himself, to stop while his thighs are shaking and back off long enough that he can wait a few more minutes, to start again too soon and drive himself back to the edge.

Waiting is horrible, but not being good enough to deserve what he wants is worse.

The kisses make him squirm with gentleness he doesn't deserve and has to take, has to thank Mario for because that's the rule. Any other time he'd treasure them, but they're worse than a beating. At least those are supposed to hurt and feel good at the same time.

Not that a beating is an option after a lousy game, because the last thing Sidney wants is to have to carry his failure written on his body any more than he already does.

He rarely asks for things to stop, but the kisses make him frantic in ways little else can. "Please don't," and he knows how backwards that is. "Please, anything else."

"Shh," Mario says, and it would be easier if he shouted, if he swore. If he didn't know how cruel his kindness is. "Let me suck you if you can't stand kisses."

Sidney covers his face and he knows he shouldn't, but it's the only way to stop himself from groaning. "Do I have to?"

Mario sighs, and that goes right down Sidney's spine and makes him want to apologize for everything all over again. They're supposed to be working through the loss, not talking about it. That will come later. "You don't have to do anything. Go back to your room and go to sleep if you want."

He could go, but if he does he won't sleep well knowing they lost and he's failing again. He's walked through enough hotel hallways in the middle of the night to know there's no solace in them. "If you really want to do it, okay," Sidney says, and he knows perfectly well how stupid that sounds.

"Now that you ask, I'd rather not," Mario says, and he gives Sidney just long enough to feel completely irrational relief--because he almost never gets off that easily in any sense, and besides being spared a blowjob is hardly a gift, except for how it would be, this time--before he says, "Turn over for me."

Sidney's stomach twists and he's so hard it hurts, but he knows better than to argue.

He can always argue.

On a day like this, it won't even mean he'll have new bruises to hide tomorrow.

It would just mean he had to wait longer to come, and he's not sure he can take that well. "Yes, sir," is easy to say, easier than anything else, and he's got enough practice making his body do things it doesn't want to do that he turns onto his stomach easily.

"Are we back to that again?" Mario asks, and tousles his hair. "You don't have to be so polite tonight."

The affection in his voice is and isn't a game, like the title fits and doesn't fit. Sidney knows it's real like he knows how to skate, but he has to bite his lip to keep himself from asking Mario to be sterner. It's easier for Sidney to remember that he hasn't earned anything yet when he can use the formal words, and when Mario's harsh with him the way he deserves.

"I can stop if you want me to."

"The only thing I want from you is some relaxation," Mario says, and it's such a beautiful lie, Sidney would laugh if he could catch his breath long enough. If he thought he might be able to laugh without moaning, he'd give it a try. "Get your knees under yourself."

"Thank you," Sidney says, not for the instruction or the warmth of Mario's hands on his lower back, but because it could be so much worse. He can't grind against the bed and come by mistake with his weight on his knees, and he can hide his face in the pillow if he needs to, even if it's only for a few seconds at a time.

"You're so pretty like this with your ass in the air, waiting for me."

Pretty isn't a word Sidney wants and it's ridiculous anyway. Nobody looks pretty on their knees--maybe they're hot, maybe they're awkward, but definitely not pretty. He says, "Thank you," again out of habit.

Mario taps his hip. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck my mouth," Sidney says, sure as he says it that it's the wrong thing to say, or anyway not the right thing. "I want to feel you in my throat."

"Not yet." There's a strain under his words. "What else?"

"Please--" Asking again won't help. "Do whatever you want to me. Whatever makes you happy."

"Take a deep breath," Mario says in the voice that Sidney doesn't have to think to obey. "Let it go. You're not going to come yet, are you?"

"No." Sidney bites back the "sir" and presses his forehead into the pillow to hide his expression. He knows better than to say it when he's not supposed to, but sometimes he slips.

"Keep it that way." Mario spreads him open and kisses him, just firm enough not to tickle. "How long will you last?" He doesn't give Sidney a chance to answer him before the first lingering lick.

It's almost impossible to put together words, let alone talk. Almost impossible is nowhere near close enough to be an excuse not to try. Sidney tightens his hands into fists and tries to focus on anything but wet, warm, insistent friction easing him open. "As long as--as you need me to."

That is one of the more optimistic estimates he's made in his life, but it's also the only answer he's willing to say aloud. Guessing at some number of minutes won't work.

And if he'd tried to name a time, he would've been wrong, because Mario moves his hand up Sidney's hip and presses into one of the bruises rising from the game where his pads weren't up to the challenge. Sidney hisses through his teeth and shifts his weight to lean against Mario's hand. The sting deepens quickly into an ache that makes him shudder and adds an edge to every shiver of pleasure.

Someone else shoved him into the boards, and the mark the bodycheck left will fade like all the other layers of bruises. It's only interesting at all because it's something else Sidney can give Mario. This little injury is what he gave up for his game today--less than a lot of other days by a long shot--and he can bear the pain and use it to make everything sharper.

The only mercy Sidney gets for the next--minutes, not hours, but they feel like hours in every ragged breath, every second he's trying not to push up against Mario's mouth and act like this is something he thinks he deserves, is that he doesn't have to do anything but endure. It's not for his benefit, and the broken sounds he makes--not words, not pleas, because the only thing he wants to ask for is for this to stop, for Mario to stop making him feel wonderful when he's been pathetic--all of those whimpering, terrible sounds are for Mario.

He breaks sooner than he wants to, because in a perfect world he would never run out of patience and say, "Please, stop, I can't, I'm sorry."

It's supposed to feel good, and it does, too good. He doesn't have permission to come and he doesn't want it, not until he's earned it.

"Positive instructions," Mario says, in the same voice he uses to chide people for cursing at the wrong time or in the wrong place. "What do you want?"

Sidney can hear his pulse in his ears and the pillow is damp against his forehead from sweat, from the kind of tears that happen when he's squeezing his eyes shut too tightly for too long. "I need two minutes."

Mario stops teasing him and rubs his back, letting him catch his breath and find a measure of control. After thirty seconds, Sidney makes himself sit up. He knows his face is red, his hair is a wreck, and he probably has pillow creases on his cheek. At least he isn't trying to pretend he's all right anymore--as if that has ever worked with Mario.

"75 seconds to go," Mario sits on the bed beside him and traces a line on his cheek that might be where the pillowcase wrinkled. "Have your next play ready."

Sidney nods and tries to decide what's possible. His patience is fraying by the second, even without more than a warm hand on his back. He needs--he doesn't need anything, and he knows better than to say he needs something when he only wants it, however desperately.

"Ten," Mario says.

That's at least nine and a half more seconds than he needs to make a good decision.

"Time," Mario says, and kisses Sidney's cheek. It feels like his mouth should burn, somehow, but it's only a light touch.

"I'm sorry I asked you to change your mind." Sidney looks fixedly at one point on the wall the way you're not supposed to when you're being filmed and hopes that he has more stamina than he's afraid he does. If he overestimates himself--and he has, before--that will make both their jobs harder; recovering from that kind of failure is worse than getting up again after a game. There are other people in a game adding unknown variables. He should know himself and his own limits so he doesn't ask Mario to push him too far. But for all the things he's good at, Sidney's never been good at knowing when to stop.

Mario runs his fingers through Sidney's hair as if that's going to make it lie flatter. It never helps. "All you want to do is apologize?"

"No." His heart's not racing like it was two and a half minutes ago, but he still needs--wants--so much more. "I want you to do whatever you want, but I need--I need more time. Please, let me do something for you--not just kissing," he corrects himself, and the corner of Mario's mouth twitches in a smile. "Fuck me or let me blow you or--almost anything, and I'll be all right."

"You'll be better than all right." Mario runs his thumb over Sidney's lower lip. "Suck me off with one hand on yourself. If you come before I tell you--" Mario hesitates.

Sidney winces well before the end of the sentence, before he has any idea what it could be. There are less physically demanding consequences on the road during the season because nothing can get in the way of the game. That's the first rule, the rule that everything else comes after and bends to accommodate. That doesn't mean the consequences are easier to deal with.

He'd rather take a beating with his hands clenched tight around a headboard and not be allowed to make a sound or come, than have to talk about why he failed, how he overestimated himself, and what he'll do next time to make sure it doesn't happen again. The worst part of talking about it is that he knows those aren't just his failures; Mario knows Sidney's abilities at least as well as Sidney does, so if he makes a mistake, it's either because they both made a mistake or because he's supposed to learn from it.

"--we'll talk about it. We'll settle whatever we need to fix when we get home."

The last time Sidney played with raw stripes from the night before on his ass, he scored two goals and two assists. The last time he had to explain why he'd had an orgasm without permission, he floundered around for half an hour saying things like, "It felt too good" and "I love you" and "I wasn't trying hard enough" before Mario took pity on him and let him stop.

"I'll do my best," Sidney promises.

"I know." Mario kisses him again and pulls him down onto the bed, almost too gently. He could be with anyone in that moment, someone who doesn't know him, doesn't need him, doesn't own him. "Give yourself ten slow strokes, and you can start," Mario says, and that helps Sidney settle. It's not rational, but nothing needs to be rational. All Sidney needs to do is what he's told.

If he had permission, he could get himself off in ten strokes. He's biting his lip by the third and struggling to keep his hips still during the fifth; on the eighth he moans, and his hand shakes on the tenth when he says, "Thank you."

"You're doing well," Mario says, which might as well be permission to breathe, which Sidney almost never needs, but appreciates when he gets it. "Go on."

It feels like stepping onto home ice to take Mario in his mouth, and it's a reward to both of them, so it has to be true that he's doing all right. Sidney falls into the rhythm of sucking him in a moment, and Mario strokes his hair.

Everything would be perfect if Sidney could stop himself from moaning--more than he usually would, anyway, which is embarrassing enough on its own without the edge of desperation he can't choke back. "Soon," Mario says, his hand firm on Sidney's neck, easing him down.

He loses breath and time for a while, a little while, because he hasn't come yet and no matter how hard he tries, he can't stand to wait much longer without stopping completely. All he has to do is be where he is, his mouth comfortably full and almost empty by turns, and if he sounds like he's losing his mind, it's only fair.

"You've been so good for me," Mario says, his words broken by his uneven breathing.

Sidney would be begging again if he could, no matter how much he hates doing it and hates knowing he's capable of sounding that pathetic. The only way he has to show Mario how he feels is by speeding up just enough to make him come, and the sudden warmth is as familiar and comfortable as the press of Mario's hand, lightening by degrees so Sidney can let him go and rest his cheek on Mario's hip. He wants to savor the moment and he doesn't want to be demanding, but he can't keep himself quiet.

That's one of the rules, at least whenever it's practical, and it's one that Sidney wonders about on nights like this: is the rule there because Mario knows he's not good at being quiet, or has Sidney learned that rule well enough that he can't be quiet anymore?

Whichever part came first, Sidney sounds worse in the quiet of the room as Mario's breathing slows. He isn't saying "Please" over and over again, or even once, but he might as well be.

"On your back," Mario says, after long enough that Sidney would worry he'd forgotten he was going to do anything, if that made any sense.

He's not going to die of impatience. No one ever has.

Still, he's on his back quickly enough that Mario's smile is as much amused as--as fond, when Sidney opens his eyes again. "Whenever you're ready," he says, and the way his mouth feels makes Sidney have to bite his lip to keep himself from shouting.

Only practice and willpower keep Sidney from embarrassing himself immediately. He concentrates on the feeling of his teeth against the skin of his lip, not hurting enough to distract him unless he makes himself be distracted. He would be jerking off the bed entirely but Mario's hands are on his hips, holding him down, the pads of his fingers digging into the almost-a-bruise again.

Every time Sidney breathes out, he sounds like he's about to start whining, and he can't stand that thought. It's better to beg, if only because he can control the words he's saying to some degree. "Please," comes out breathy and awful, but without the edge of a whine, and once he's said it, he can say it again, and again, as long as he can stand to listen to himself.

There's nothing left to beg for. Mario taps his leg twice, then a pause, then once more, giving Sidney permission again.

It's been a long night, and he's done everything right since the game. That has to be enough--it's enough for Mario, and Sidney's not going to argue the point, not now, not when the alternative is letting himself come at last, so hard the world narrows down to the brilliant flash of nerves finally allowed to do what he's wanted--needed--for what feels like hours.

After the bright wave of pleasure, exhaustion hits nearly as hard and fast, before he has the presence of mind to say anything more interesting than, "Oh."

But this time when Mario kisses him, it doesn't hurt at all. Sidney did everything he was supposed to and worked as hard as anyone could have. "Go to sleep," Mario says, and that's the easiest instruction yet. If he had to, Sidney could find the room he's assigned, wherever it is. He doesn't get to sleep with Mario often enough, not all the way through the night.

The room smells like coffee when he wakes up again, but it's still dark. "Good morning. The flight's at eight," Mario says. He's up and dressed already, and reading something on his phone. "Team breakfast in half an hour, and we'll head to the airport after that."

Sidney wants to put his head under the pillow and stay where it's warm for the next twenty-five minutes but he knows better. "My clothes are still--um." He can't remember where his room was this time, up a floor, down three floors, or in another hallway.

"At the end of the bed. I got them." Mario waves one hand in that direction and gets up to sit on the edge of the bed. "Have some toast first."

If they were at home he'd get up first to keep crumbs out of the sheets, but this bed will be stripped and washed before anyone else sleeps in it, so it doesn't matter.

They're careful not to make anything into a habit on the road because some things won't work out every time, no matter how hard they try. So Sidney appreciates every morning he can have peanut butter toast--with the right peanut butter--while he's leaning against Mario's shoulder. "How's the weather?" he asks.

"Clear," Mario says. "No chance of a delay for rain."

"I'm up, I'm up," Sidney says against his neck, and he almost is.

Sidney's hair is still drying on his way into breakfast at the hotel's restaurant and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet, but there aren't many decisions to make before they have to go. Hotel food means about the same thing wherever they are, so he can fill his plate and sit right where he belongs, nudging his knee against Geno's under the table. "Morning."

Geno has two heavy china mugs of coffee in front of himself along with his breakfast. He nods. "Couldn't sleep," he says, and lifts one of his mugs, wrapping his hands around it until it disappears. "What a lousy game."

The game feels like it happened weeks ago. Some of it was pretty bad, but there will be ways to fix it. Watching his team suck is easier with some emotional distance. "We'll get them next time," Sidney says.

Geno almost smiles, which is pretty good considering the sun hasn't come up yet. "When you took that hit--" he stops himself and shakes his head.

The new bruise on Sidney's hip throbs and he glances at Mario, who's talking to Dan and not paying any attention, then turns back to Geno with the best captain face he can make at ass-o'clock in the morning. "You mean when you took that penalty?"

Geno looks sheepish. "It was worth it for a dirty hit."

"Maybe," Sidney says. He's going to have to watch the game to see exactly what happened. "Want to review it with me?"

"Already?" Geno sighs and drains his first mug of coffee. "Okay. After the flight."

Sidney bumps him with his shoulder to seal the deal. "Thanks. It's easier watching rough games with somebody else."

Geno coughs and jerks his chin toward Mario and Dan. "You need more company?"

He is absolutely not blushing. He's drinking coffee and the coffee might make his face kind of warm. "No, you do. You're the one who's still worried about our performance." Sidney frowns at Geno, who's giving him a "just kidding" look. "Just for that, you can bring the snacks."

"Then no whining about them."

Sidney punches Geno's arm and grins at him. Half the point of inviting him is to break him out of his bad mood. Chirping Sidney is a good sign. "No promises. If you bring, like, borscht-flavored chips or something--"

"Ugh, shut up," Tanger says from the other side of the table. "I'm trying to eat over here."

"No borscht chips," Geno says, and now he's grinning back. "Just sour cream, I promise."

"Okay." Sidney has had beet chips that were at least a little bit less empty calories than sour cream potato chips, and he bets Geno would think they were funny.

It's much easier to look after his team when he's got his feet under himself. Sidney writes himself a note on his phone about the beet chips, and while he's got it out, he texts Mario the "Thank you" he didn't say before he fell asleep.  



End file.
